The Glass Princess
by JessicaJ
Summary: The Kingdom of the Dead, they called it. But he was already dead, he told himself. What did he have to be afraid of? The city would welcome him into its embrace, a shadow to join the shadows; another distant memory to be forgotten and lost.


The Glass Princess

The Kingdom of the Dead- That was what they called it. Its name had long been forgotten, superseded by its most recent, and apparently final, chapter of history. What truly lay within the stone walls, nobody could say. Only rumours existed, many and various, yet each as horrible.

It was cursed, that was for sure.

The thorns grew tall and dense. The very air around seemed to still in awe of the forest of twisting limbs, black and terrible, stretching taller than oak, pine, or willow. The darkness within seemed absolute.

No wonder a soul had claimed to venture within, and return to tell the tale.

But he was already dead, he told himself. What did he have to be afraid of? The city would welcome him into its embrace, a shadow to join the shadows; another distant memory to be forgotten and lost.

The thorns cut at his flesh, yet he felt no pain, even as the toxic ooze clouded his mind. He saw visions, spectres that warned him to turn away before it was too late. He ignored them all.

The gate stood open, almost daring him to enter. Had it been so easy? His addled mind did not allow him to question it, instead stepping over the rusting remains of fallen swords and spears.

The smell hit him first – hot and cloying, inducing him to expel what little content his stomach had. They were all dead, at least, though suspended in their rotted forms. The air was wet and sticky, coating the inside of his mouth. He spat, for little relief. Guards, peasants, children and creatures alike, remaining when they last fell, centuries before, maintained in their degradation by the putrid forest of thorns that spewed from the cobbles, erupted through the stonewalls, and burst through windows. They were the poisoned veins that sustained this place.

He wandered through abandoned courtyards, along narrow ginnels and peered into hovels and palatial homes alike, finding more of the dead, empty eye sockets imploring him, bony tendrils that were once fingers pointing, accusing.

Still, he searched.

He should have been here. He had a duty, and he had failed, and had been punished. This, this kingdom, was Hell- His own personal Perdition. And he would know it; all the dead, staring faces, the abandoned whore houses, the taverns. Though he must visit the place where it had all began, first.

The palace loomed beyond the rotting drawbridge. The wood creaked unreassuringly underfoot, though he did not fear the fall into the black empty space below, once a moat teeming with fish. Now only their scorched white bones remained.

The air within the palace was colder, though the scent of decay was still strong. The banners, once resplendent in colour hung in tatters. The candelabra had rusted and shattered upon the ground centuries before. The corpses of the king and queen slumped in their thrones, bony hands interlaced in a final embrace, their crowns gleaming dully upon their skulls.

He dropped to his knees before them, bowing his head as dry sobs took him. It had been his duty to serve them. But he had been weak, and Maelificent so beautiful… and so terrible. When the princess returned, on the eve of her birthday, just as Maelificent had predicted, he had ran. Turned on his heel and ran. Not fast enough to avoid the curse entirely, yet enough that he was not turned into a corpse, like his King and his Queen.

Not fast enough to escape the knowledge of what he had done. Two hundred years had not been enough to forget, nor two thousand miles far enough to escape the pull of this place. He had come back. He had come to where his final resting place should have been. He had come to bury each and every one of the dead, and to remain their final watcher, for the rest of eternity.

A gentle breeze plucked insistently at his tattered travelling cloak. The cool air was a gentle kiss upon his fevered, tear-stained cheeks. What was this?

A narrow doorway stood open. From memory, this lead up to the tallest tower of the castle, though what it was used for, he could not recall. Nostrils flaring, he approached the arched stone doorway cautiously. Sure enough, the scent of rot was less prevalent here. The breeze grew stronger.

He set his travel-weary legs to ascending the stairs, twisting inwards sharply, and more tightly with each revolution. It was cool yes, but dark. He relied on touch alone to guide him, finger tips blindly clutching at gaps and cracks in the stone, planting each foot firmly before committing to the next step.

He stumbled twice, catching himself with bleeding palms before his head smashed against the edge of the stone stair. His ascent seemed never ending, the air still close for its coolness. The silence and darkness was absolute, though he could not turn back now, for the descent would surely be more treacherous that the climb.

He daren't utter a sound to disturb the muteness that drowned him. Even his footfalls seemed absurdly muffled, yet he feared that he would disturb whatever magic lay upon this place, that kept the dead, dead.

Lo- what is this, but light? They black becomes grey, and in muted shades he can see the pattern of stone, the curving steps. He quickens his pace, nearly tripping in his anticipation to reach the apex of his climb. For what, he does not know, but the sight of light is enough to propel him.

He stumbled out into an open room, the brightness near blinding him. He shields his eyes from the glare bursting through the clear glass panes. The tower seems to rise above the curse itself, evading the rot and the gloom. His gaze adjusts, and his eyes fall upon a figure of a young woman, lying atop a marble dais. Her skin is so pale, as if she were cut from the same marble she lay upon. He thought her dead, perfectly preserved in this tiny sanctuary, looming above the rest of the kingdom which had long rotted away.

He dared take a few steps closer. Her hair might have been golden once, though he cannot tell for certain. Was she cut from stone? Could stone and a mason's chisel ever hope to create something so perfect?

For she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen; delicate lips, long elegant lashes, slender fingers… her hands were interlaced at her abdomen, creating a slight imperfection in the fabric that swathed her.

Who was she? Why was she here?

Holding his breath, as if in fear of disturbing her from her eternal slumber, he circled the dias, drinking in everything from every angle.

Now facing the stairwell where he had entered, his gaze snaps to the tiniest imperfection in the statue. A glaring anomaly, a screaming keystone to the mystery he was trying to solve.

A tiny spot of deep red marked her perfect robes, beneath her right hand. Blood?

_On the night of her sixteenth birthday, she will prick here finger, and die._

So this was the princess. Of course… the details rushed back to him in battering droves. He had seen her return that night, had bowed his head to her in welcome. She had golden hair the colour of the dawn sun, her eyes were a blue no flower could hope to capture. Her lips and cheeks were the colour of the bloom after which she was named, though no such thing had bloomed here for centuries.

This was her. He had expected to find another rotted corpse to bury along with her mother and father. But this… Not this. He had not expected this.

He approached the dais, and knelt there, touching his fingertips to her cheek, feeling no response to the sensation. She was inanimate, as much akin to the stone than to him, flesh and bone.

_My Princess…_ he does not recognise the voice, only knowing that it must belong to him for there was no other soul to utter a word, here. It cracks from disuse. It bears no accent, for no longer does he recall a place where people laughed, joked and sang songs, a place where he hailed from. A place he belonged.

_My Queen… _the line of succession mattered so little now. What kingdom is there left to rule?

_I am so sorry I failed you. I could have stopped this. It was I who coated your spinning needle with poison…_ He folds his hands and bows his head, tears falling upon her face. In his blindness he does not see that their tracks leave behind a trace of colour, before fading.

Her hair is brittle and breaks between his fingers. Her fingers are locked in place. Her lips are dry and cracked beneath his own. _Aurora… Rose.. My Queen._ Her skin bears no heat, scent or taste.

She is as close to nothing as she can possibly be, without being nothing.

"You're not supposed to be here," A cold voice addressed him from the doorway, startling him. A short, plump woman with a haggard face frowns at him, hunkered beneath dark red, dirtied robes.

_Who are you?_

"You're not supposed to be here." She repeated. "Must you disturb the dead?"

_I did not come to disturb them. I came to lay them to rest._

"Oh is that right?" Her face coloured with rage, fists curling and uncurling. "What if they do not wish to rest? What if they want their revenge? Were it not for you…" She pointed, accusing him. He saw the pointing hands of the corpses, the dirty bones, the empty staring sockets, and he felt a building fear within him.

_I never meant for this to happen…_

"It's too late for that…" She sighed sadly now, stepping towards the Glass Princess and gently touching the side of her face.

"-far too late." Another voice echoed the red woman, this time speaking from behind him. A taller, decrepit looking woman leered over him, beady eyes piercing him. Her hands reach for him, a strong power emanating from her, repelling him. He stood, staggered and tripped away from her, back towards the doorway, fearful of all kinds of magic, since Maelificent …

"Where do you think you are going?" A third voice caused him to whirl on the spot, tangling his feet, and pitch forwards, head first, towards the opening down into darkness. He caught sight of a rounded blue-robed form before he began to fall down, down… down…

He came to in the grand hall, lying flat on his back. Every muscle screamed. All of his bones were battered, broken or bruised. Yet all of that paled when he glimpsed, through puffed up eyes, that the entire kingdom had turned out to come and stare at him.

Empty black sockets, staring, bony fingers pointing, accusing…

And that stench, that awful stench, cloying and coating his mouth.

…But he was already dead, he told himself. What did he have to be afraid of? The city would welcome him into its embrace, a shadow to join the shadows; another distant memory to be forgotten and lost.

That was his final comfort, as he body was torn into pieces.

The Glass Princess began to colour, as his life's blood poured forth upon the stone.

-0-

Fin.


End file.
